The Falling Woman (10 page)

"How deep is this pool?" I asked him.

He shrugged without opening his eyes. "Deeper than you think. According to the team from Tulane University, it goes straight down to a hundred and fifty feet. Keeps going at an angle from there. They did quite a bit of underwater work."

"Will you be diving this summer?" I asked.

Tony shook his head. "No budget for it. The university doesn't think this is a glamorous enough site for the big money."

I could understand that attitude. So far, I had seen nothing that looked particularly impressive.

"It's an important site," Tony was saying. "The oldest continuously occupied ceremonial center. But to convince the university to let us come back next year, we need to find something spectacular."

"Like what?"

"Jade masks, gold, pottery painted with pictures of important rituals. Or maybe a set of murals like the ones at Bonampak in Chiapas." He lay back, setting himself down gently as if his bones might shatter.

"Something flashy—a tomb filled with treasure would be ideal. Something that can double as a tourist attraction."

"You think the chances are good?" I asked.

His eyes were still closed against the sun. He shrugged without opening them. "Hard to say. We're gambling. We always have to gamble. Liz likes gambling, I think. But then, she's never lost big. She has luck. The academics don't like her. But she has luck."

"I hope I won't be in the way here," I said. My voice sounded thin and weak. "I don't want to get in her way."

He opened his eyes halfway and squinted at me. "What do you expect to find here?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble, like the thunder of ocean waves on a warm beach or like rain on a tin roof on a winter morning. "Some come looking for secret knowledge; some, for adventure. What do you want here?"

I shrugged. "I don't really know."

"You'll find something, that's certain. But it's never what you expect."

"What do you want here?" I asked him, closing my eyes against the sun.

"Warmth and peace," he said. "I used to want more, but the years have changed that."

"What should I do?" I asked lazily, my eyes still closed. "Expect nothing and see what comes?"

He was silent for a moment. "That might work." He hesitated. "Your mother doesn't know what to do with you—I can tell you that. That's why she's a little stiff. She doesn't know what role to play."

I opened my eyes and wrapped my arms around my knees. The sun had dried my skin and the rock was warm beneath me. "Neither do I," I said.

"You've been doing okay," he said. "Just keep on the way you're going."

I did not look at him. I watched Barbara dive beneath the water and pop up like a cork.

"I think that having you here will be good for Liz," he said. "I think she needs people more than she is willing to admit."

I heard him shift position, but I still did not look at him.

"Someone once told me that archaeologists are anthropologists who don't like live people. They dig up dead ones because dead ones can't talk back. That's not quite true. But I think live people are too fast for most archaeologists. We're a slow-moving lot. We look at a change in pottery technology that took a hundred years and say that that's pretty quick. We're used to taking our time. You'll have to give Liz some time to get used to the idea that she has a daughter.''

"All right," I said slowly. "I will." I lay back on my towel and let the sun warm me.

After a time, Barbara left the water and lay down beside us. Tony left after about fifteen minutes of sunbathing, saying he had some reading to do back at the camp. Barbara propped her head up to watch him go. He waved from the crest of the hill, then vanished from our sight.

"Ten to one he'll be on his third gin and tonic by the time we get back," Barbara said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I looked at her sharply.

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "I like Tony. Everyone likes Tony. And we all see that he drinks too much." She rolled over and lay on her back, her head pillowed on one arm. Her dark hair was slicked back and still glistening with water from the cenote. "It hasn't interfered with his work so far. He's still a brilliant teacher, from what I've heard. It's just in the field that he lets himself go."

I remembered what he had said about warmth and peace. Barbara glanced up at my face and shrugged.

"Sorry. I suppose I shouldn't have mentioned it. After a while, there's not much to do in camp except gossip about the other people. Dead people, fascinating though they may be, are not nearly as interesting as the live ones." She turned her head and opened one eye to squint at me. "Don't you agree?"

"I suppose you're right."

"Of course," she said. "Now—what do you suppose Carlos and Maggie and Robin are saying about us?"

"What makes you think they are talking about us?"

"I thought we just went through that. They're talking about us because live people are more interesting than dead ones. You don't think that archaeologists talk about archaeology all the time, do you? No, they talk about other archaeologists. So what do you think they're saying about us?"

"Ten to one, Maggie thinks that I'm stuck up," I said, adopting her tone. "Probably thinks you are too."

"No bet there," Barbara said. "And Robin will go along with that, because Robin goes along with anything Maggie says. She has the mark of the eternal sidekick. What about Carlos?"

"If Carlos has any brains, he'll stay out of it."

"Ah, your first error of judgment. Carlos has no brains. I'd bet that he will try to defend us—at least he'll defend you. Carlos and I aren't the best of friends."

"So I'd noticed," I said dryly.

Barbara shook her head. "I can hear those wheels turning," she said. "And you can just stop. No, I never slept with Carlos. But I watched him sleep with four different women last summer—courting each one with equal energy and passion—and dropping each one just the same." She shrugged. "The first of the women was a very good friend of mine. She had to hang around the rest of the summer and watch Carlos make his moves on numbers two, three, and four. All of them were very nice women. All of them were burned." She shrugged again. "I don't know why he does it, but I think he likes trouble. Be careful."

"Thanks for the warning. I'd figured that out already."

"John, on the other hand, is a workaholic. I doubt if he even realizes women exist." She closed her eyes against the bright sun overhead. "So, do you want to place a bet on whether Maggie and Robin will wear mascara on survey tomorrow?"

We lay in the sun and chatted. Barbara had a sharp eye and a sharper tongue and she was quite amusing at the expense of the others.

After an hour or so, we heard shouting and laughter on the trail. A group of Mexican boys, ranging in age from five to fifteen, came scrambling down to the cenote. Barbara and I watched them swim for a time, but packed up to leave when the older boys started a contest to see who could make the biggest splash by leaping into the water from the sheer rock face. The rock where we were lying was right on the edge of the splash zone and retreat seemed the wisest course.

"It belongs to them the rest of the year," Barbara said as we headed back. "We only borrow it."

"Do they live near here?"

"Up at the hacienda, I think. You know, the ranch out by the highway. In the middle of the henequen fields."

"Long walk down here," I said.

She shrugged. "When there's only one place to swim, I suppose it doesn't matter much how long the walk is."

The camp was quiet. Tony sat in the shade by his hut, a drink balanced carefully on the arm of his lawn chair. My mother was apparently working on her book—I could hear the tapping of her typewriter. Barbara declared that the only thing worth doing was taking a nap. I borrowed a book from her, took a seat in the shade at one of the tables, and settled down to read.

Chickens scratched in the dirt around me, clucking bemusedly to themselves. A small black pig lay by the wall near the kitchen, taking a prolonged siesta. I could hear the cook's daughter singing to herself. She was just on the other side of the wall, scratching in the dirt with a stick. I could not understand the words of the song. They could have been nonsense or they could have been Maya. When she peeked over the edge of the wall, I smiled and said,
"Buenos días."
She ducked back behind the wall and was silent for a few minutes. Then I heard the scratching of her stick in the dirt and she returned to her song.

The first chapter of Barbara's book gave a general history of the Mayan empire, profusely illustrated with photos of Chichén Itzá and Uxmal. Dzibilchaltún was mentioned as the oldest continuously occupied site, but the text included no photos. I understood why.

The Maya had occupied the Yucatán peninsula since 3000 B.C. They absorbed several invasions from Mexico. From the book, I got the impression that the Maya's strength was not in their military prowess, but in their ability to absorb invaders, adopt some of the new customs, retain some of their own. For the most part, they held their own until the Spanish came along. The Spanish conquistadors overcame the Mayan armies; the Catholic Church subdued the survivors. The friars seemed, from the book's account, to be concerned with saving the heathens' souls even if that meant ending their lives.

I took a break and drank a glass of water from the barrel in the shade. I considered going back to the cenote for another swim, but the prospect of the long, hot walk discouraged me. The plaza was hot, even in the shade. Tony had gone into his hut for a nap or another drink, I supposed.

The second chapter described the Mayan view of time, saying that the philosophy of time was an essential part of their way of thinking. The book failed to make it seem at all essential. I had read the first paragraph over three times and was considering a stroll through the ruins, when the jeep drove up in a cloud of dust. Carlos and Robin were sitting in the front seat; Maggie was alone in the back. "Hey, Robin," I heard Maggie say, "let's take this stuff to the hut and go for a swim."

The two women headed off together with their laundry bags, never looking back at Carlos. I suppressed a grin and looked back down at my book, considering the comments that Barbara might have on this particular sequence in the courtship rites.

I tried to concentrate on the book, but the description of the Mayan calendar was as dry as my throat. I had moved on to the second paragraph, but it was little better than the first. Cycles of twenty days made a month; eighteen months made a year. Each day had a name and the Maya believed that each day was the responsibility of the god of that name. There seemed to be an inordinate number of names and gods and cycles.

"Would you like a beer?" I looked up. Carlos was holding out an open bottle. The brown glass was beaded with condensation and a wisp of cold vapor curled from the open neck. Carlos set it on the table in front of me without waiting for my answer. He sat in the chair across from me and took a long drink from his own bottle.

I put the book down and took a long drink. The bottle was cold in my hand and the beer was cold running down my throat. "Thanks," I said. "That was a quick trip to town."

He nodded and grinned. He was tanned and handsome, and he knew it. He wore white shorts and an air of confidence. He pushed his chair back away from the table and propped his feet up on another chair.

"Just long enough to do laundry and have an argument."

"An argument? What about?"

He seemed at ease, sleek and content as a well-fed cat. "I got myself in trouble with Maggie by commenting on how pretty you are."

"Barbara mentioned that you liked trouble," I said.

He glanced at me, then threw back his head and laughed. "I suppose I do," he said. "I seem to find it often enough."

"Are you sure you don't go looking for it?" I asked.

He shrugged, still grinning. "Could be. You are pretty, though. You're from Los Angeles, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"I spent about five years in Los Angeles. I'm from Mexico originally, Mexico City. L.A.'s a nice town.

Why the hell did you decide to spend your vacation in this godforsaken spot?"

I did not look at his face; I considered the condensation on the beer bottle. One drop traced a path through the other drops and reached the table. I shrugged. "I really just wanted to spend time with my mother."

"I see." He turned the book, which I had set down on the table, and read the title. "I would have thought you knew all this already. Being Liz's daughter."

"I don't know much at all," I said. "This is my first dig." On the wall by the kitchen, a small blue lizard marked with yellow stripes was sunning itself. The black pig shifted its position, sighed, and continued its nap. I could still hear the little girl singing softly. The chickens were scratching in the dirt. I watched the chickens and regretted having accepted the beer. I did not want to talk about my reasons for coming here.

"Why don't you tell me something interesting about the ancient Maya?" I asked.

I could see him weighing possible comments. "Your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I've ever seen," he said at last.

I raised my eyebrows. "That has nothing to do with the ancient Maya."

"That's true." He paused, and when he spoke again, he spoke slowly, as if choosing each word with care.

"The ancient Maya carved elaborate ornaments of jade using nothing but stone tools. The jade that they carved was just the color of your eyes."

I couldn't help smiling a little. "A little better. Try one more time, and leave my eyes out of it."

He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it, studying my face as he did so. Then he said, "The people who have put their minds to translating the Mayan hieroglyphics have come to the conclusion that many of the symbols are puns and puzzles.
'Xoc,'
for example, means 'to count.' It is also the name of a mythical fish that lives in the heavens. So the Maya used the head of the fish to represent counting. But since the fish was difficult to carve, they substituted the symbol for water, since that's where fish live. The symbol for water is a jade bead, since both are green and precious. So jade means water means fish means to count." Carlos paused, took a drag on his cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "And as confusing as all that sounds, it is simplicity itself compared to the mind of a woman." He tapped the ash from his cigarette and looked at my face. "Is that better?"